Page 92 of The Spirit of Love
“I don’t really want to get into it.”
“Okay…well, we don’t have to go into town. My friends are staying on a yacht. We could go to the yacht club and hang out with them there. Just for a little while. You look like you hate this idea. But I want you to meet them. I want them to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Why would you ask why? Because I like you. It’s not a strange request.”
“I like you, too. I like this”—he gestures between us in thebed—“very much. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no need to muddy the waters with anything else.”
I flinch, stunned by the harshness of his words. “I don’t consider meeting my friends muddying any waters. They’re part of my life.”
“Look, I want to be the kind of guy who says yes to this, but I’m just not.” Sam’s tone hasn’t changed. He says these words with such warmth that it doesn’t feel like he’s being an asshole. I feel like I’m missing some vital piece of information.
So I keep probing.
“I tried new things for you,” I remind him. “I said yes to azip lineand spearfishing and sex on the beach, all of which are distinctly out of character for me, and all of which paid major dividends. What if you say yes to me? To this? You might surprise yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” he says and shakes his head.
“Really?” I say, feeling myself growing annoyed. “You won’t even entertain the idea?”
“I know my limits.”
“Maybe they’re due to be stretched?”
“Some people change. I don’t. I won’t.”
I scoff. “I’m not asking you to quit smoking or resume a relationship with an estranged relative. I’m asking for fifteen minutes of your time to say hi to some people I care about. People who care enough about me to be worried that I came all the way out here to spend a secluded weekend with a guy I barely know!”
“I didn’t think we’d get to this point so quickly,” he says with a sigh. “I was hoping for more time.”
“Real question: Are you always this rigid with the women you date?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Oh. It’s just me.”
“Fenny, it’s not you. It’s definitely not you. It’s me.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “It’s a known fact you can’t use that phrase unironically afterSeinfeld. But don’t worry, I can give you a quick tutorial on the newfangled misogynistic phrases cool guys like you are using on the mainland.”
“I’m actually telling the truth,” Sam says.
It’s too dark to take off on my bike back to the yacht club, so I roll over onto my side. “Good night, Sam. I hope you have a static, totally inflexible rest.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I wake with an emptyfeeling. When my eyes open to the sight of Sam’s small, blue-curtained loft window, I remember where I am. I remember what happened last night and how lonely it had felt to try to sleep after our argument. I remember the restful sound of his breathing as I lay tossing and turning, only able to drift off after assuring myself we’d work it all out in the morning. Now, I reach for him—
But he’s not there.
“Sam?” I call, sitting up in the bed, drawing the sheets around me because it’s cold in this cabin and I’m naked. There’s a stillness in the air that tells me right away he isn’t here. Not downstairs burning toast. Not out on the porch finessing his one-armed pull-up. He’s somewhere else. I don’t know where, but I know he’s gone before I can prove it. And the hollow I feel in his quiet bedroom is heavy.
I get up to search for my clothes, and that’s when I see the note Sam left on his pillow. I sink back onto the bed to pick it up. I’ve never seen his handwriting before. It’s quick and blocky, confident, all caps but not aggressive. Very much the way he speaks.
Fenny,
I’m sorry about last night. I wish I was better at explaining.
